


snowstorm silent

by fatalize



Series: Fruits Basket Childhood [6]
Category: Fruits Basket
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 15:16:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19405927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatalize/pseuds/fatalize
Summary: In Hatori's house of pure silence, his father teaches him the memory suppression technique until they are interrupted by a visitor.





	snowstorm silent

**Author's Note:**

> So, almost a whole year later this series is getting updated, lol. The inspiration for this just suddenly came to me, so I can't promise what frequency any future updates will come in.
> 
> As with the previous ones, this is standalone and not so much of a hard and fast yes this is 100% what I think happened in canon, and more of an exercise for writing's sake. The timeline is somewhere around middle school, maybe Hatori is 14. I was working off the info Takaya provided in one of her side columns, that Hatori's mother died while he was in elementary school, his father died while he was in high school, his father taught him the memory suppression technique, and that his childhood wasn't particularly warm.
> 
> All that said, I hope you enjoy.

Hatori’s house was quiet—dead quiet for a cliché, hauntingly so for an extended metaphor, the Sohma estate’s dead always lingering—Hatori’s mother, for one—the living poltergeist of always-sickly Akira, the death that clung to his father’s patients, their various ills.

The silence that quilted Hatori’s home was akin to the quietude of a snowstorm; all living things hidden away, dead or hibernating or taking cover under the brush, the snow smothering all life, the wind rushing it around blindingly in the flurry of patients in and out of their home.

So when Hatori’s father came to Hatori’s room Hatori was surprised at the sudden noise.

“I have something to teach you,” he simply said, then walked away.

No hello, no please come with me, just a brusque order, though that was what Hatori expected. The unexpected presence of his father would have been more jarring if it was filled with any of those former formalities.

Hatori rose from the desk he was sitting at—didn’t bother closing the medical textbook he was studying; he’d return to it once this business was done—and followed his father into his room. Wordlessly they sat across from each other on the floor, and Hatori said nothing, waited for his father to speak first.

“I’m going to teach you the memory suppression technique,” he said, that same monotone voice that ordered instead of asked. Hatori nodded. It wasn’t unexpected, nor did he think the task of learning would be challenging. He had seen his father perform it before.

Hatori didn’t ask why now, either. His father looked tired, his skin sallow, and while Hatori wasn’t yet knowledgeable enough to know the cause—nor had his father told him—he at least knew that his father was beginning to deteriorate before him.

But he wouldn’t ask. He wouldn’t ask. He sat there and waited for his father’s instruction. And so it followed in a brief, dry lesson that was not too hard to follow.

A kind of hypnosis. That was the basic definition of it. Hatori sometimes wondered how much the technique had to do with his own powers and more of the recipient’s willingness to forget. To erase traumatizing memories—a very base human desire, he thought—that couldn’t be consciously willed away by the person on their own but was nudged along by his family’s practice.

He didn’t ask about it. How long it had been passed down. What his grandfather was like, how he performed it. Did his father think they were actually helping. Was this healing, like doctors were supposed to do. Was this a part of the curse.

Toward the end of their lesson there was another unexpected noise to break the silence—a knock on the door. An almost perfectly timed interruption. Hatori’s father rose. Hatori stayed put.

“Is Haa-san around?”

Of course it was Shigure. His voice penetrated the silence like a virus, his presence disrupting, a foreign body moving through the system, its presence felt, loud and obvious, even when not seen.

Hatori didn’t hear his father’s reply, if he made any. Just footsteps, and then the door sliding, and then—

“Pardon the intrusion~”

“What do you want?”

“How cold. Can’t I visit my friend just because I feel like it?” Shigure moved across the room and sat where Hatori’s father had been moments before. Hatori sighed. He supposed their lesson was done for the day if his father wasn’t returning and hadn’t kicked Shigure out. He relaxed his shoulders slightly.

“You picked an awfully convenient time to show up.”

“Oh, am I interrupting something?”

“Not particularly.” Hatori rested his chin on his hand. “We’re already finished.”

“Can I guess?” Without waiting for an answer, Shigure continued, “Was he teaching you how to d—”

“The memory suppression technique,” Hatori interrupted. He suddenly felt very tired. It wasn’t Shigure, necessarily—if he could be around Ayame’s limitless energy and extroverted outbursts, Shigure was mild in comparison—and while both were troublesome he didn’t think of either of them as nuisances. Well, maybe a little. But they were his friends.

It was something else he couldn’t put into words.

Shigure paused for a moment. “I see,” was all he said. Not that he needed to say anything else. He probably already knew what they had been doing. He had met his father at the door, seen how pale he was. Knew how little Hatori spoke to his father otherwise. Shigure knew and didn’t press and Hatori was glad for it. So instead, Shigure said, “Aya was making a fuss earlier.”

“Over what?”

Shigure shrugged. “All he said was he simply _must_ see Tori-san today.”

“He knows where to find me.”

“You know Aya,” Shigure said without further elaboration.

Hatori sighed. He was tired. He had things to do. Could those two not understand? Did they never get tired?

“I have to go back to studying—”

“Haa-san,” Shigure interrupted. “I can see you’re tired. But can’t you humor him? Or would you rather stay in this abysmally quiet place all day?”

So that was it.

Shigure was always concerned about the affairs of others, after all. Concerned—interested—nosy—butting his head in for his own amusement—whatever it was, it was obvious he saw Hatori staying locked inside all day as something unsuitable and was using Ayame’s selfishness to lure him out. Whether Ayame was that aware was another thing, but all things considered Ayame wasn’t a complete idiot.

Probably.

“Did he at least give a reason?”

“I didn’t ask,” Shigure said, standing up. “Let’s find out.”

Hatori gave in and stood up as well. They left the room, and then—

Then, another knock on the door.

Hatori’s father answered—it was one of the older maids. They spoke quietly, quickly, then retreated to another room.

A sudden chill swept over Hatori. Hushed words, always bad news, ills and issues. The house was a mausoleum, and even though four bodies were currently alive under one roof, it was still snowstorm silent.

It was eerie. It was lifeless. It sat in his heart like an iceberg.

Shigure continued forward, unbothered. He opened the door and they stepped outside from dim light into sunlight, blinding at its noon peak, harsh and hot end-of-summer rays. The grass rustled in the slight breeze, and a lone bird sang in some nearby-yet-unseen tree. He heard the voices of the other Sohma in the various houses, the shuffling of feet.

Further away, he saw Ayame’s bright white hair, caught his golden eye. Ayame immediately started bounding over, excited as a child. And Hatori realized he was still tired, but a little less so now.


End file.
